I Was a Refugee

Refugee: a person who leaves his or her home or country to find safety, especially during a war or for political or religious reasons. Captain Teresa Della Monica gives a personal perspective of what it is like.

byCaptain Teresa Della Monica

Refugee,
displacement, relocation, asylum, a polarizing political theme that can conjure
fearful thoughts of uncertainty.

Without
a doubt, a horde of people displaced, needing to be re-housed can create a near
panic situation. It brings to mind a country overrun by foreigners. We think of
people living in tents, hungry, requiring ourﬁnancial
resources, the crimes, the incarcerations, disorder.

As
a nation, we have already witnessed a barrage of foreigners climbing into rafts
willing to confront the perils of the open sea in the hopes ofﬁnding freedom.

Captain Teresa Della Monica

In
today’s climate, as countries debate back and forth about responsibility toward
the refugee, we watch from the safety of our living rooms, while people young
and old from all around the globe seek asylum, seek a helping hand, seek a
voice on their behalf.

How
hard it is to relate to anything that you are not clear about or comfortable
with.

I
was born in Cuba, on the cusp of communism. Both of my parents were Cuban, and
except for my paternal grandmother who was a Spaniard, my grandparents and
great-grandparents were Cuban as well.

Prior
to the Castro revolution, Cuba enjoyed seasons of lavishness, famous for its
beaches and nightclubs.

However,
behind the façade, it also fell victim to much debauchery, disgrace and
darkness. Well known for its coveted cigars and rum, dance girls and the
Tropicana, Cuba gave us Desi Arnaz from I
Love Lucy, Celia Cruz, Gloria Estefan, Andy Garcia and Jose Canseco. Cuba
also served as the trading block for the African slave industry. It was amid
turmoil, uncertainty, chaos and hunger that people lived their lives.

In
the mid to late 1950s Cuba once again found itself in the midst of despair,
money becoming worthless, those with availableﬁnances,
began the initial great exodus to the United States, moving into Tampa and
Miami, as is evident by the Cuban inﬂuence
there.

When
parents could not leave the country, they boarded their children onﬂights headed to the USA. Theﬂights, known as the Peter Pan Flights, arrived in
Miami. Once there, the children were met and housed by the church clergy as
they awaited the arrival of their parents.

On October 6, 1966, my family and I left Cuba as refugees,
seeking asylum in the United States. We
left the island nation on United Airlines Freedom Flights. Financially pledged by members of our family,
we became residents of the State of New Jersey.
Our family had rented a basement apartment for us, which they also
furnished. I remember the sadness and
depression that my mother grew into while we were there. She longed for her mother and the life she
once knew.

Our city had seen its fair share of foreign influences. Once dominated by the Germans and then the
Italians, our community mostly consisted of other Hispanic immigrants. Ours was
a small tight-knit community, all needing each other in order to withstand the
isolation and newness of our new environment. My parents suffered, I know they did. A new language, a new climate, a new lifestyle.
A new way of thinking. Always holding on to the hope of returning to their
homeland one day.

My siblings and I, because we were younger, eased into our
new environment with less stress. We
quickly picked up our new language and discovered that we could use it to our
advantage when we did not want our parents to know what we were saying. Then again, children area easily molded to
change.

Displacement can be a traumatic event. A person might find
herself at the center of a volatile situation that had nothing to do with
creating. And the situation is worse if children are involved. You are not only
fighting for your life, but for the life of them as well. You must learn to simultaneously
embrace your new environment, learn a new language and begin the process of merging
into a different mindset, all the time not wanting to compromise your heritage
or identity.

For years I struggled with not knowing where I actually
belonged. I spoke Spanish at home and knew I was Cuban, yet at the same time
very American. Even hearing your name pronounced in a new way can be traumatic
and confusing. And in becoming a poorly adjusted teenager, it became a
nightmare.

This country has always had refugees. Native Americans
witnessed some of the first refugees, the pilgrims who journeyed here in hopes
of finding political and religious freedom.
Along the way, the United States has opened its borders and its arms to
many foreigners in need of help. I want
to believe that as a great nation, we will do the right thing when we see that
our neighbors are in need of a hand.

I am not trying to persuade anyone currently on either side
of the proverbial “refugee” fence, but only to share my story, my life as a
refugee.

I Kings 8:41-44 says:

As for the foreignerwho does not
belong to your people Israel, but has come from a distant land because of your
name,for they will hearof your great
name—and your mighty handand
your outstretched arm—when they come and pray toward this temple,then hear from
heaven, your dwelling place. Do whatever the foreigner asks of you, so that all
the peoples of the earth may knowyour name and
fearyou, as do
your own people Israel, and may know that this house I have built bears your
Name.

I am a Salvation Army
officer, commissioned in June of 2014, living in Tampa, FL. I was a Cuban
refugee, a foreigner, in need of a safe dwelling place. I heard the Good News of Jesus Christ in this
country. I came to know the Lord Jesus Christ in this country and believed unto
salvation. This country opened its arms to me and my family and for that, I am
thankful. My heritage will always be Cuban-American, but my heart and my
faithfulness will always belong to The Lord.